My phone sings acoustic
folk from its nest
in the bag of oranges.
Five o clock sunlight
gilds the kitchen
and my world is a harsh shine—
cheap marble counter,
copper strainer
I’m scrubbing clean,
steaming water
that streams through
its soapy pores.
Light filters
through my lashes
and pools in my collarbone
as I lose my skin’s softness
to the scalding tap.
Vance Joy’s guitar strings slip
into my ribcage
and loosen my jaw
as I work the sponge
around a silver slotted spoon.
Should I be soft
like water running,
like sunlight?
Or severe
like chapped hands,
like sunlight?
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